Rated R for swearing, violence, and suicide (and/or suicide-related issues). If this offends anyone, don't read. Thought I'd add that I own nadda. All characters, names, and related indicia are property of J.K. Rowling. I am merely trying to share some of her goodness in a non-illegal way. :)

-------

Chapter 15: Green Is Not Your Enemy

Mrs. Doreen Frizzle of number five, Privet Drive, sighed and was interrupted from her favourite television programme as yet another commercial splayed across the screen. This was getting bloody ridiculous. She frowned petulantly.

"And don't wait!" a well-dressed man was saying as the commercial for a new toaster oven took over the tiny television. "Order now and we'll throw in a brand new spatula with the new, extra attachment absolutely free!"

"Right," Mrs. Frizzle snorted, eyeing the ad with great suspect. "You'll have to pay some other dodgy fee they don't tell you about when you're buying it just to get the spatula. Sodding liars, the lot of them. Isn't that right, Ed?"

Her husband Edmond was sitting stiffly on the other end of the sofa, gazing fixedly out of the window. "I suppose so."

"Oh, don't lean on the armrest so, you'll upset the doilies!" Mrs. Frizzle scolded. "I spent weeks crocheting them, you know."

The small living room was dimly lit by one single lamp in the far corner, casting the space into a yellow conflict of shadows and lights.

"Wonder what's going on at number four," Ed mused absent-mindedly, getting up to peer through the white lace curtains out the window to the house across the street.

His wife tutted. "The Dursley house? Any disruption made on this street's because of them. I was chatting to Arlene the other day and she agrees with me. It's that boy Petunia's got stuck living with them, I said. The one that attends that school for the criminally insane."

"I thought it was for schizophrenics," Ed muttered, squinting through the dark. "My...there are people outside their home! Quite a few, in fact. My, my, my, those are odd clothes they're wearing..."

"Must be that boy, then," Doreen said wisely, nodding her head a few times, absorbed in another commercial advertising a sale at the local fabric store. "Oh look at this, Ed...only fifty pence a yard! Is that a deal or is that a deal? I'll have to ring Arlene later and go down."

"Dodgy..." Ed was saying to himself. "Definitely dodgy...I wonder what on earth they could be doing? Dear me, I hope they're not burglars." He glanced darkly out the window one more time before restlessly returning to the couch.

Silence elapsed in the Frizzle home as neither spoke. Ed clasped his hands together in his lap and stared at the TV as his wife's favourite sewing programme came back on.

"You have to work the needle into the fabric like this," a woman was saying as the show resumed, following the lines in a fabric using red thread. "To get the desired effect. See, Michelle, how that works?"

Another woman smiled appreciatively. "Gorgeous, Dotty, simply gorgeous! The colours you've chosen for this pattern really stand out."

Ed couldn't get interested in quilting. Watching old ladies putting pieces of metal into blankets wasn't his idea of entertainment...and he found himself staring out the window again, squinting.

Wait...something was strange. A lot of yellow light was shining out of one of the Dursley's upstairs windows onto the house beside it. The man's brow furrowed and he watched for a minute as it began to get brighter. A faint acrid smell suddenly began wafting into the living room and with a horrified start he was up off the couch and over to the window, his eyes wide.

"Doreen...ring the fire station!"

"Why?"

"Because the Dursley house is on fire!"

"What?"

Doreen was at his side at the glass, her eyes equally as wide as orange flames were beginning to find their way out of the upstairs window. Thick, black clouds of smoke were pouring out of the opening and as the two stared, three brilliant flashes of green light shone into the atmosphere before more robed, masked people began streaming out of the home and disappearing.

"What in the name of arse is going on?" Doreen gasped disbelievingly, suddenly shaking. "Those p-people just...they all just...b-but...people don't just disappear, Ed!"

"Must have been a trick of the light," her husband said, alarmed, rushing into the hall for the telephone.

"Oh, there's the Neeson's looking out their windows too," Doreen observed, glancing down to number two. "I wonder what's happened!"

A distant wail erupted through the night.

"There, they're coming," Ed said, going back to join his wife at the window, holding the lace curtains aside for a better view. "And look! Isn't that old Mrs. Figg coming along the street? The dodgy lady that's always hanging around here?"

Suddenly, with a quick succession of loud cracks that were audible even to them, a good deal more people suddenly appeared out of nowhere on the front lawn and began rushing into the house, except for two dark figures that started to creep around the outside towards the back.

Doreen screamed and covered her face. "More of them!" she hollered, running to collapse on the couch. "People are disappearing and appearing out of thin air, Ed! Am I going crazy? Are you seeing it too?"

A sudden sharp knock came at the door and, not waiting for anyone to answer, a young woman with bright spiky pink hair burst into the room wearing long, black robes. Doreen screamed again.

"Is there anyone else in your home?" she demanded breathlessly, her eyes wide and alert. Ed shook his head and was about to ask her what she was doing in his house when she pointed a stick at his wife and yelled, "Obliviate! Stupefy!"

Doreen was struck silent and looked dazed for a moment, then keeled sideways and went limp.

"Obliviate! Stupefy!"

Ed knew nothing more.

---

Harry's eyes were wide with shock. He was totally floored. "Dead?"

Professor Lupin nodded. Snape paced his quarters, his hands clasped behind his back.

"But...why?" Harry asked, his entire body going numb. This was unbelievable. "Why them?"

"We don't know," Lupin replied. "Dumbledore thinks that it was done to break the spell your mother placed on the home. To free you from that kind of protection. It is a good theory, at any rate."

"No," Snape said darkly, staring at the Slytherin crest that was carved out of the wall in stone above the fireplace mantel. "Dumbledore's theory is true. I feel that's exactly why the Dark Lord did it."

"But..." Harry said falteringly. His brain didn't seem to want to function. "They're...they were the only family I had left..."

His emotions were mixed. Very mixed.

Lupin placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I know you never had that great a time there, Harry," he said comfortingly. "And yes, they were your only living relatives...I'm sorry. I'm sure they loved you deep down."

Harry's eyes suddenly blazed. "No, they never did. They made that clear every day and every night."

Snape stiffened. "What do you mean, Potter?"

He was facing the black-haired boy, detecting something buried deep. "Did you wish to share anything with us?"

Harry looked at him defiantly. "Nothing, sir."

"Are you sure?" Lupin asked worriedly, glancing at Snape. "I will ask this again, Harry. Were you all right during the summer?"

Harry looked searchingly into Lupin's gray eyes. "Those letters..." He trailed off, looking past Lupin somewhere and breaking his gaze. "Were true."

There was silence, save for the crackling of the fire.

Snape found what Harry had to say very hard to believe. They still hadn't gotten to the bottom of the bruises Pomphrey had found on the boy after his run-in with the Slytherins. Of course, Snape knew who had hurt Harry that night. He couldn't go and tell Dumbledore or Minerva though, without any proof. Harry wouldn't admit it, and he was sure Draco wouldn't confess.

Suddenly the flames leapt high and turned emerald green, and the whoosh of someone using the Floo network sounded. Tonks stepped from the hearth and dusted herself off, holding a book.

Snape and Lupin looked up.

"All right?" Lupin asked urgently. "How is everything down there?"

"We're cleaning things up," Tonks gasped, adjusting her black robes. Her hair was a brighter shade of pink than Harry had last remembered it to be. "The neighbors are being horribly nosy, though...everything's a real mess. Wotcher, Harry." She held out a slightly charred book to him and Harry took it with trembling fingers.

"One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi," he read aloud, flushing. Snape looked at him irritably.

"Whose copy have you been using instead, Potter?"

"Ron's," Harry answered painfully, feeling his throat constrict. "Sorry sir...I knew I'd forgotten this somewhere..."

"We found it in your room," Tonks informed him.

"Thanks," Harry mumbled.

"Right," the woman continued tiredly, turning her attention to the Professors. "I'm here to give a small report. We've caught two more Death Eaters and Bill Weasley and Shacklebolt have been taken to St. Mungo's, but we think they'll be all right."

"What happened?" Lupin asked.

"Kingsley got five Stunning spells in the chest, and Bill had his left arm really badly broken with the Brochaeus hex. The bone was sticking out of his arm and everything..."

"And the Death Eaters?" Snape inquired sharply as Lupin made a slightly unpleasant face.

"No idea who they are," Tonks replied, fishing more Floo powder out of a pocket. A deep cut was situated over her left eyebrow and was bleeding badly. She kept wiping the blood away with her hand impatiently to keep it from running into her eye. "Their masks were on when we managed to get them with the anti-Apparating jinx, and Dumbledore held them while I went to see if Bill was OK - "

Snape nodded. "All right. Anything else?"

"Nope, that's about it," Tonks said, turning to leave. She looked at Harry. "Sorry about your relatives, Harry."

Harry nodded stiffly. "Thanks," he replied as she stepped into the green fire once more.

"Number four, Privet Drive!" A soft whoosh and she was gone.

All was silent once more. Lupin stared at the clearly distressed boy for a long time, feeling powerless to help him, his own emotions mixed regarding the situation. Harry didn't seem to want to talk, however, and the man stood up.

"Well," he said. "I think I'll head off...I need something to perk me up a bit...full moon's coming..." He winked at Harry, smiled sadly and nodded to Snape.

"I'll see myself out. Thank you for letting me come down here, Severus."

Snape's lip curled, but he said nothing.

Lupin bent down and looked Harry in the face. "Remember," he said seriously. "If you ever need to talk, Harry...I am always here, OK?"

Harry just nodded.

As the door closed behind Lupin, he suddenly realized that he was alone in the potions master's quarters. Snape was probably pissed that Harry wasn't leaving too, so Harry stood up and tucked his book under his arm.

"Where are you going, Potter?"

Harry paused. "What d'you mean, sir? I'm going back to...Gryffindor Tower, I guess."

Snape surveyed him critically, his onyx eyes narrowed. "No you're not. Sit down."

Harry regarded Snape suspiciously, but sat once more, getting a feeling he knew what this was going to be about. His potions master billowed across the room from the fire to sit at his desk, where he ruffled through some papers.

Dark wood bookshelves overflowing with books, random sheets of parchment and potions bottles were propped against every stone wall. Snape's large desk was crammed against the wall opposite the fireplace, and on the space behind it a large painting of two intertwining serpents hung. All the chairs in the room were made from black leather, and a large, cast-iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, each candleholder resembling a snake's body. Harry noticed that wherever there seemed to be a spare bit of space, even cluttered to the sides of the hearth, potions bottles would be sitting. Three dark, intricately carved wooden doors in the wall near the fireplace lead off to who knew where. The place smelled of sandalwood and other different herbs and spices.

Snape was watching him closely. Harry squirmed in his chair, very uncomfortable under the man's penetrating stare.

"I am sorry about your relatives, Potter," he said. Harry sighed.

"Thank you, but it's really nothing."

"It's nothing, is it? So it doesn't bother you in the least that your mother's sister and her family are deceased?"

"It bothers me that more innocent people are dead because of me," Harry blurted. "But as far as the Dursley's being gone forever, I'm not going to shed a tear."

Snape's eyes glittered strangely. "And why is that? Why are you not sad about the fact that the people you have lived with for fifteen years are gone?"

"Why does it matter so much to you?" Harry asked angrily. He gripped the armrests on his chair quite tightly. "Why do you suddenly care?"

Snape brushed a lock of black hair out of his eyes. He got up from his chair and walked out from behind his desk to pause once more at the fireplace. He felt like deducting points, but now was not the time.

"I care because this is the first assault the Dark Lord has made since he has come back to power," he answered. "And it was made on your family. Which, in turn, reflects upon you."

Harry was bewildered. "Me? But..."

Snape pulled up another chair and sat down opposite Harry. The potions master hated himself for getting this in-depth with the boy, but it needed to be done. Plus, he actually did care somewhat about his well-being. Harry had no idea how much danger he was in. (And when did he start calling him Harry in his thoughts?)

He looked at the boy and was surprised when a sneer didn't automatically plaster itself on his own face. He recalled himself raging at Dumbledore about Potter one night in the Headmaster's office and couldn't believe that the subject of that argument was sitting before him in his own private living area. Potter looked utterly abashed at the man's apparent benevolence. Snape eyed him somberly.

"Potter, did you love your relatives?" Blunt, but it was late and he didn't feel like beating around the bush. Goddamn this councilor bullshit.

"What?"

"Please just answer my question."

Harry looked at him as though he would rather face a Chimaera than talk to him about this. He shook his head in disbelief, and then glanced down at the floor.

"No. I didn't love them."

"You hated them?"

"I didn't hate my aunt," Harry answered quietly. "I hated my uncle and my cousin, but I didn't hate my aunt. Because...because she was my mum's sister and...she wasn't as..."

Snape knew what he meant.

"Are you sad that your aunt is dead, then?"

Harry looked up at him. "Sort of. I didn't hate her but I didn't love her either. If it had of been just she and I living together, things might not have been so bad."

Snape had him. Potter knew it, too. His face flushed and he glared at the potions master.

"So you admit things were bad there?" His eyes glittered.

Harry didn't answer the question.

"Your uncle beat you." It was a statement.

Harry gasped and met Snape's eyes. Snape saw fear there, denial, and then acceptance, all mingled with anger. He closed his own eyes as Harry answered him with silence. This was bad. The young wizard was trembling now.

"And this began over the past year?"

"He didn't beat me."

"Potter...those bruises were not from innocent accidents during the summer."

"He didn't beat me!"

"And you didn't fall down the stairs!" Snape was becoming a little angry. "I can assume, probably quite correctly, that Pomphrey knows what she's talking about when she assesses someone's injuries. The said injuries you had on your flesh were not from falling down stairs, Potter. Some bruises looked many weeks old and were in lovely varying states of colours. You also have scars from past welt marks on your back, too, which I daresay were not inflicted by taking a tumble. Now, if you wish to challenge Pomphrey's Healing intelligence, then be my guest. Or if you imagine you can think up a better story for me, I will hear it. I pray it will be better than the rosebush-planting scenario you fed McGonagall with last month."

"You...you..." Potter stammered, looking at him in furious bafflement. Snape sat, his arms crossed over his chest, his onyx eyes cold and challenging. He could tell Harry was clearly at the end of his tether. And Potter knew that he knew it, too.

Harry bit his bottom lip, defeated. He crossly stared at Snape's right knee for some time, apparently in thought, and drew a shuddering breath. After some more quiet length, he answered softly, "All right. It began...it began when I was three."

Snape's jaw dropped in spite of himself. "Three years old?"

Another nod.

"Then you admit that you lied to the Order all summer?"

"I'm sorry."

Snape's eyebrows shot up. "Potter, you don't need to apologize. This isn't your fault."

"Yes - "Harry cut himself off and took to glaring at Snape. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Then tell me about your arms."

"I don't want to talk about that, either!"

"You cut a couple of hours ago, didn't you? How long have you been hurting yourself?"

"Please stop it."

"Have you been doing it since the summer? Or has it being going on earlier than that?"

Harry covered his ears with his hands.

"Answer me."

"STOP!"

Potter's eyes were filled with livid tears. Snape had hit a nerve and he knew it. He also knew that if he didn't cool down, he would lose Harry. So he took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on the young man's.

"I am not your enemy, Harry," he said with forced calm.

"You're the head of Slytherin."

"Green is not your enemy, either. I'm not here to try to hurt you with unpleasant details about your past. Look around you. You're in my own living area, a sacred place to me that I've managed to keep every student out of since I became potions master of this school. It is also early morning, and instead of telling you to bugger off so I can sleep, I'm here with you, am I not?"

Harry looked at him apprehensively. "How come? Did Dumbledore make you do this?"

Snape sighed. "Yes and no, Potter. It gets complicated, but I always had the option to abandon looking out for you altogether. I daresay I've been doing a horrible job."

Harry remained silent, brooding. Snape held out his hand.

"Give me your arm," he said quietly. Potter hesitated suspiciously, and then complied.

Trying to ignore Harry's reluctance, Severus rolled back the sleeve of his robe gently and flinched at what he saw, suppressing a gasp. These marks were deeper than the ones he'd seen back in September. Alarmingly deeper. He pushed the sleeve up higher and the ugly, fiery red cuts continued up the boy's flesh, disappearing under the sleeve of the white shirt he wore underneath his uniform. Snape exhaled loudly through his nose and fished a small bottle of white potion out of a pocket.

Potter was shaking. Severus looked at him, but Harry's eyes were closed and his face had gone a ghostly white colour.

"Nobody was supposed to find out," the young wizard murmured brokenly. "Least of all someone like you."

"Oh? And why not someone like me?"

"You hate me. Why would I want you to know?"

Severus shook his head and uncapped the bottle, digging his fingers into the slightly thick mixture and slowly smoothing it onto Harry's scorched flesh, earning him a small twitch and a hiss of pain.

"This may come as a shock, Potter, but I don't hate you. I don't terribly like you, but I don't hate you."

"Hard to believe."

"I suppose we just piss each other off naturally," Snape replied, sneering at the boy. "But if we're going to have to be working together in the near future, I daresay there are some unpleasant details we'll both have to get over."

Harry didn't reply. He knew now that Snape was correct.

Harry suddenly gasped at the coldness of the potion as it set in and opened his eyes.

"What is it?"

"The Salve of Healing," Snape replied, being careful not to rub too hard in case it hurt him even more. The cuts were still fresh and bleeding. "It takes two months to make and only produces a small amount, so it's always in high demand with Pomphrey."

"You make all her potions?"

"Of course, Potter," Snape replied, grateful that the heated conversation between the two had evaporated. "Much quicker than ordering it from Diagon Alley." He finished rubbing the salve into Harry's arm and gently rolled his sleeve back down.

"Can I see the other?"

Harry grudgingly extended the other arm and Snape was greeted with more wounds. He wondered how much pain Harry had been going through to make him do something like this...these cuts were even worse. His brow furrowed as he worked the cold potion into the surprisingly strong arms and felt Harry suddenly tense.

A horrible wave of white-hot searing pain abruptly ripped through Harry's scar and he clapped his free hand to his forehead, hissing loudly. "Fuck."

Snape's onyx eyes were mingled with amusement at his choice of words and an emotion almost like fear. "So he knows, then. Here - " He summoned a bottle of red potion off his desk and held it up to Harry's mouth. - "Take one small sip of this...it will help with the headache." I can't believe I'm doing this...

Harry did. He was breathing heavily and he winced several times as more pain erupted in his head. "I hate this."

"I know."

Harry finished with the potion and shuddered slightly, then placed the bottle on the floor near his feet. "So if you don't hate me, why do you always treat me like shit during potions class?"

Snape grunted. "You can think what you like of me, Potter, but I have a reputation to keep in this school. I'm the surely, dark, sadistic, foreboding asshole that lurks the dungeons and I simply cannot allow any decency I might have inside me shine through for the school to gossip away about. I would be ruined. That doesn't mean that I'm never genuinely irritated during class, however...I almost always am. Especially yours."

The boy rolled his sleeve down once Snape had finished and looked at the older man strangely. His emerald eyes were filled with exhaustion and overload and Snape suddenly felt the weight of the time pressing in on him as well.

"You would like to be getting get back, I presume."

"Not really," Harry admitted, standing anyway and tucking his book once more under his arm. "I can't..."

Snape tutted. "You most certainly can. The invitation I extended earlier was not meant to last all through the night."

"No, it's something else..." Harry said. "Never mind. I'll be going then." The young man walked quickly over to the door and paused, his hand on the doorknob. "Thanks for the salve, Professor."

Snape nodded curtly and watched the young wizard go, remaining sitting there for some time afterwards.

---

Harry made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, his feelings of dread growing with every step. He didn't know what had just passed between himself and his potions master, but it was certainly not the usual feelings of utmost hatred that they usually shared. They had managed to scrape a civil conversation for the first time really since he'd come to Hogwarts...which deserved a spot in the trophy room as far as he was concerned. He was surprised that Snape had said what he'd said and acted the way he acted; he had seemed so genuinely caring and interested in what Harry had had to say...which made him wonder if the man was pretending. Harry shook his head and tried to rid himself of his suspicions. Surely the potions master was capable of somewhat possessing a good side, right?

Hah.

He could still feel the cold potion that the man had massaged into his arms and he blushed again as the knowledge once more overtook him that Snape knew.

Nobody was supposed to find out. Snape had apparently cared and said that he wasn't there to hurt him. Harry didn't know if he believed that.

He was mortified, nonetheless.

He desperately hadn't wanted anyone to find out about what exactly had been going on at number four, Privet Drive, but the night's events had taken a turn for the worse and now his most hated teacher knew his deepest, darkest secrets. He hadn't even told Ron and Hermione...

At the thought of Ron, Harry snorted with both anger and pain and stalked down the corridor towards the portrait of the Fat Lady, who was sleeping soundly in her frame. Harry coughed loudly to let her know he was there and she jerked awake with a small "Oh!" and looked down her nose at him crossly.

"Interrupt my sleep, you nasty little- "

"Newt Scamander," Harry said impatiently. The fat Lady sniffed and swung open to let him in.

There was no way he was going up to the dorm. It was so early in the morning, but he decided he couldn't be that close to Ron after what had just happened between them. He stared at the dying embers in the fireplace and curled himself into one of the armchairs, his slightly burned book falling to the floor as he slept.

-------

"Um...Harry? Harry Potter?"

"Ughnnn...?"

"I'm sorry, but you probably should be getting up. First class begins in fifteen minutes."

Harry opened his eyes. A timid looking second year girl with auburn hair was looking at him. Harry squinted against the pale light shining on his face through the window from the cloudy sky outside. A particularly nasty migraine throbbed at the base of his skull and began creeping up towards his temples and Harry's brow furrowed in discomfort.

"I'm really sorry for waking you," the girl said again, looking sincerely apologetic. "But..."

"No," Harry mumbled, his entire body stiff and aching from spending the night in a chair. His eyes were blurred with sleep and he shifted painfully. "It's all right...thank you..."

"No problem," the girl smiled, backing away so he could stand up. Harry swayed slightly and she reached out suddenly to steady him.

"Whoa," she said, looking at him closely. "Careful now. Blimey...no offense, but you look like you could use some more sleep. In a bed."

Harry thought he mumbled something, but he couldn't remember really what it was. The girl shook her head sadly and extended her hand.

"Natalie McDonald," she said kindly, introducing herself. "I know who you are, of course."

"Hi," Harry said, adjusting his robes, which had gotten caught underneath his arm. He bent over and picked up his book and yawned tiredly. "Sorry about this." He shook her hand and attempted a smile.

"No biggie," Natalie answered, grinning again. "Just...you know...people kept walking by you down to breakfast and no one was waking you up...thought I'd help...well, take it easy, then."

And with that, Natalie was off out the portrait hole with a giggling group of second year girls.

Harry's world was spinning around him. He checked the time on the old grandfather clock near the door and realized he'd only gotten three hours of sleep. He felt worse than he had before he'd dozed off. Snape would be a monster during the afternoon potions class.

Transfiguration would have to wait.

Harry dragged himself up the stairs to his dorm room where Seamus, Dean, and Ron were still changing. They broke off their conversation abruptly and simply stared as an exhausted Harry entered the room wordlessly, crawled into bed, and dropped into a deep sleep once his head hit the pillow.

"Harry?" Seamus called uncertainly. The black-haired boy didn't move.

"Wow, he's really out," Dean commented. "Wonder where he was last night?"

"He's going to miss Transfiguration, at any rate," Seamus said enviously. He fastened the clasps on his robes and grabbed a few books off his bed. "Coming, Dean?"

He and Dean left the dorm room, waving goodbye to Ron, yelling back that they'd see him in class. Ron wasn't paying attention though, he was busy staring at the charred book Harry had beside him on his bed.

Ron waited for the door to swing closed before he walked quietly over and plucked the book out from amongst the folds of white sheets. Harry looked like he was dead, he was sleeping so deeply. Ron couldn't help wondering where the hell he'd been the previous night...he'd been gone for hours. He reached down again and carefully removed Harry's glasses, placing them on the table beside his bed, taking himself by surprise at what he was doing.

"One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi," Ron whispered aloud, reading the cover. He recalled Harry saying that he'd forgotten the book back at the Dursley's...but why was it all burned if it had been there? He thought for a moment and shook his head, then left for class.

---

Transfiguration was a whispering mass of students. Professor McGonagall hadn't arrived yet, unusual for one such as herself.

He couldn't understand why Hermione was crying.

"What is it?"

"Oh Ron..." she said, fishing around in her bag and pulling out a copy of The Daily Prophet. "It's all over the place..."

YOU-KNOW-WHO STRIKES AT LAST - HARRY POTTER'S RELATIONS FOUND DEAD AT HOME

Five Death Eaters captured after the murder of three Muggles in western Surrey

Ron stared at the front page, horrified.

---

Dumbledore was frustrated. "I told every Ministry worker on the scene to tell nobody of any of this! They gave me their word!"

"Do you really think their heads of Department would honestly allow them to answer a call without knowing what it was about?" Minerva sat in his office with a mug of tea. She looked very worried indeed. "I knew it would be in the morning issue the moment they turned up. How could it not be? The story is too big to ignore."

Dumbledore ran his hands over his face. "I know. I tried feebly to keep it from the Prophet...however, they promised me, Minerva. That is the part that angers me most."

McGonagall observed him sadly, watching the old wizard pace his office in annoyance. He stopped suddenly and sighed.

"Right. I must go have a word with Fudge. Minerva...I shouldn't be gone long."

Professor McGonagall gave a small start at the time, and waited for Dumbledore to Floo out of his office before she followed suit to her classroom.

-------